نامَ العَواذِلُ وَاِستَكفَينَ لائِمَتي

وَقَد كَفاهُنَّ نَهضُ البيضِ في السودِ

The reproachers have reproached me, finding fault with me,

Though the hoariness on my temples should suffice.

الشَيبُ كُرهٌ وَكُرهٌ أَن يُفارِقَني

أَعجِب بِشَيءٍ عَلى البَغضاءِ مَودودِ

Grey hairs I hate, yet more I hate to part with them.

I still have tender affection for one who hates me.

يَمضي الشَبابُ وَقَد يَأتي لَهُ خَلَفٌ

وَالشَيبُ يَذهَبُ مَفقوداً بِمَفقودِ

Youth passes, but another may come in its place;

Grey hairs, once gone, are gone beyond recall.